


Moonlight

by aldiara



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/F, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 22:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11975910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: Ginny and Pansy have a quick sixth-year tryst. It doesn't mean anything. Nothing means anything anymore.





	Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Ties into an old fic of mine, [Crimson](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1768792), but can be read as a standalone.

 

Ginny runs under the full moon, wondering what it would be like to be a werewolf. To just give in to this feeling that’s sticky and hot and angry inside her, to just _let go._

She wonders how much it would hurt. She has her scars, has had her little flirtations with pain, but she thinks it would probably be different if she _had to_ feel it. If she’d no choice about it. If her bones stretched and her organs shifted and her lungs expanded with that long, agonised howl. If she tasted flesh in her mouth, and the dark, coppery burn of the moon.

She probably shouldn’t feel this much longing about that. If she wanted to, she could probably get Greyback to introduce her to the real thing anytime, and the fact that that doesn’t entirely put her off should probably worry her.

Probably.

The night air is crisp and clean, stretching her lungs, searing them. 

“Steady there, Weasley,” says a familiar voice, raspy and amused. “Wouldn’t want you to get eaten by spiders, or anything.”

She turns towards it. Even under the bright, bright moon, the shadows in the Forbidden Forest are dark, and Pansy’s outline is a darker blackness against them. She should have spotted the small round glow of the cigarette.

“Those things will kill you, Parkinson.”

A soft huff of laughter. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think it’ll be an issue.”

Ginny moves in fast, pushing Pansy against the tree she’s leaning against. Under her hands, Pansy is reassuringly solid, firm curves, covered in cotton and leather, skin sleek with sweat.

Ginny bites her on the neck, still angry, still restless. “Don’t,” she says softly, urgently, not entirely sure what she means. “Don’t.”

Pansy laughs again, shifting her hands against the flimsy dress Ginny’s wearing. It’s just a long cotton hoodie, really, nothing to get excited about, unless of course you’re in the Forbidden Forest, pressed up against Pansy Parkinson, and the world is always about to end.

“How did you even get out?” Pansy’s breath is hot against her ear, her hands busy inside the seam of Ginny’s dress, tracing the edge and branding her skin. “With the curfew and all.”

Ginny laughs derisively. “Fuck the curfew. You said to come.”

“Mhmmm. I wasn’t sure you would. My stupid stalwart Gryffindor.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ginny hisses, sliding a knee between Pansy’s legs. “We can’t all be super-secret double agents. How have you not been caught yet, precisely?”

Pansy shrugs, a sinuous movement beneath Ginny’s roaming hands. “We’ve got our moves plotted out. Draco’s smart about it.”

“I don’t want to hear about bloody Malfoy right now,” Ginny murmurs. She slips the straps of Pansy’s tank top down her shoulders. No bra. In the moonlight, Pansy’s pale skin shimmers like silk. 

“You asked.” But Pansy’s voice has darkened, softened, as she wraps her hands into Ginny’s loose hair. Ginny presses her mouth against Pansy’s collar bone, follows it down to her sternum and the generous swell of her breasts. Pansy makes a noise, half-suppressed, when Ginny’s lips slide over her nipple, tongue darting out to taste.

“I don’t care,” Ginny says, fiercely, then closes her lips, sucking hard. Pansy’s nipple tightens in her mouth, swelling against her tongue, and she’s suddenly wet, overwhelmed by the reality of Pansy’s body against her, the sudden push of her, curvy and sleek and demanding. 

The ground is soft beneath the tree, moss or decayed leaves or something else dead. They’re half out of their clothes and Pansy’s hands are calloused where they slide under her hem, fingertips rough and knowing. In the moonlight she can’t see Pansy’s scars or her creepy tattoo, snakeskin darting quick and dark across Pansy’s milky skin. She can’t see her own scars either. The moonlight leaches everything of colour, making her and Pansy the same, just two pale girl shadows, touching, kissing, sucking. Like any two girls. Like this doesn’t matter. They could be anyone, really.

Pansy moves down between her thighs, pushing her knees wide. Her tongue slides up against her, shameless and knowing, opening her up. Ginny moans. Pansy stays away from her clit, just keeps licking up the entire fold of her, slow and agonising and wet.

“For fuck’s sake, Parkinson,” she growls, digging her hands into Pansy’s skull. Her hair is sleek and soft, sliding between Ginny’s fingers. “Get the hell on with it.”

Instead, Pansy shimmies up, fitting herself against Ginny, her skin night-chilled but hot underneath. Her mouth is slick and open against Ginny’s, tongue sliding inside, twining with hers. Her fingers slip into her but she’s gentle about it, thumb on her clit, two fingers going deep. Ginny can’t help a whimper. 

“Gin,” Pansy murmurs, against her lips, humping against the sharp point of Ginny’s hip bone. Ginny wants to push her away, or laugh, or something, anything that refutes the dark intimacy of that one murmured word, warm under the moon, _Gin_ , like Pansy knows her at all, but she can’t; she’s tight and straining against Pansy’s fingers, arching rhythmically into the wet push of Pansy’s cunt against her hip. Belatedly, she reaches down. Pansy is slick and vulnerable against her fingers, so hot, and she bites Ginny’s shoulders when Ginny curls her hand _there,_ pushing her fingers inside. 

“Fuck,” she says, breathlessly, to the dark purple sky, “fuck, Pansy, _there_ ,” and Pansy’s hand tightens, rubbing her fast and deep, and Ginny shouts, brief and ragged, arching her back. Her fingers have slackened but Pansy rubs herself hard against that handy sharp hip bone, and slumps on top of her with an unintelligible curse.

Something crawls along her arm. For all Ginny cares, it might be a spider; she can’t bring herself to move but to touch Pansy’s hair, lightly. Pansy’s mouth is open against her sternum: soft, so soft a mouth for a girl so harsh and mocking. Her weight feels too good; she should move.

“Tomorrow,” says Pansy, softly, rough-voiced. “The Carrows are going to come for the fifth years. One-on-one interviews. For school security reasons. Get them out of the way, yeah?”

Ginny makes a vague acquiescing noise. Above her, Pansy leans up on one elbow. Her face is dark under the moon, her eyes blacker than the sky. “You really should get out of there, you know.”

Ginny laughs without humour. “Like I said. We can’t all be heroes. That’s up to Longbottom, and fucking Malfoy, apparently.”

Pansy hums, quietly displeased. Her hand curls around Ginny’s wrist. “At least try to stay safe, you stupid cunt.”

Ginny bares her teeth, leans up to nip at Pansy’s lower lip. “You stupid cunt,” she repeats, “There’s nowhere safe.”

They kiss, slowly, under the moon, until the dawn draws them back.


End file.
